He Who Fights With Monsters
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: As a fugitive from the law hiding out in Wakanda, Bucky Barnes struggles daily with the darkness lurking in the shattered memories of his past as the Winter Soldier. Luckily for him, Steve knows somebody who's the closest thing to an expert in helping Enhanced individuals battle their personal demons—and Dr. Andrew Garner never turns his back on a patient in need.
1. Highly Recommended

_For the purposes of this story, please ignore Dr. Garner_ _'s fate in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. This fic is a side-project that I'll be working on in spare moments between writing for my main fic, 'We Were Soldiers.' Updates will be a little sporadic._

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He Who Fights With Monsters

 _1\. Highly Recommended_

Seated behind his polished oak desk at Culver University, Andrew Garner's dark eyes danced over the pages of the report in front of him. It was an incomplete, fragmented thing; in some ways, not unlike the man it described. It had been compiled from various sources, through years' worth of observation, eyewitness accounts and even blind speculation.

The HYDRA reports at the start of the document were the hardest to swallow. Words like _neurological conditioning_ and _negative reinforcement_ made for unpleasant reading, and it didn't get much better when he reached the medical reports about the _cybernetic enhancement_ the patient had been forced to undergo without consent. When he read about how they'd brought him out of cryo and wiped his memory time and time again, erasing the very core of who and what he was, his hands tightened briefly around the pages he held.

He followed the patient's progress through the decades. Law enforcement accounts of men, women and children found dead through gunshot, stab wounds or strangulation. Eyewitness statements of _'something dark and blurry, like a shadow given form.'_ HYDRA reports of _mission successful_. Sometimes the accounts, and statements, and reports, came thick and fast, several over the span of a month… and then nothing. Years might pass before the shadow was seen again.

The latest additions to the document were largely speculation. The men and women who'd added to it admitted that their knowledge came from observation, rather than direct interaction. _Interaction_ , they felt, _would be counterproductive to the patient_ _'s recovery._

He placed the document down on his desk and looked up at the blond-haired man seated opposite. Steve Rogers' head was tilted, his blue eyes staring mistily at the gramophone as he listened to the quiet symphony of Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ playing in the background. It was currently Summer, the most turbulent of all the Seasons, or so Andrew thought. Where Spring and Autumn were fraught with the emotion of transience, and Winter was bitter, muted melancholy, Summer leapt all over the place, at one moment slow and sedate, the next frantic as a raging storm.

"You like Vivaldi?" he asked the off-duty superhero.

The man formerly known as Captain America gave him a wan smile. Andrew had no idea how Mr. Rogers had re-entered the country undetected by the authorities, but he was risking his own freedom to help a friend. "I'm not much of a fan of classical music. I was actually admiring your gramophone. I was surprised to see it here. When I asked Tony for one for the Avengers' compound, he gave me an iPod and told me it was 'better.' I still haven't figured out how to add things to the playlist. Guess that doesn't matter, now." His blue eyes lowered to the document, a small frown drawing his brows down with them. "So. What do you think?"

Straight to business. Andrew guessed he couldn't blame the guy; this _was_ his best friend since childhood they were talking about. But before he made his decision, he needed to know one thing.

"Why come to me?"

"You came highly recommended."

"By whom?"

Steve Rogers was wore his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts on his face. Andrew read hesitation in the deep breath he took before answering, in the sudden squareness of his broad shoulders, and the way his eyes darted to the right as he tried to figure out the best way to answer.

"I don't know," the man admitted. "I got an anonymous email which told me of your work with Inhumans. I suspect Fury."

Andrew nodded. He _didn_ _'t_ suspect Fury. But he wasn't sure whether Captain America knew yet that Phil Coulson was still alive, and it wasn't his place to deliver that particular piece of news.

"I have caveats, Mr. Rogers. Before I agree to this, I want assurances that whatever Mr. Barnes and I discuss will remain private. If I make reports, I'll hand them to Mr. Barnes, and nobody else. The last thing I want is for my work to fall into the hands of these HYDRA people."

"HYDRA are gone," Mr. Rogers said firmly, as Autumn began.

"No offence, but you've believed that before, and look where it got us."

"Point taken. Whatever concessions you require, I'll make sure you get them." Mr. Rogers leant forward in his seat. "According to the email, you're the best at what you do. Right now, we need the best."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he picked up the document again and thumbed through it, until he reached the report which described how the Winter Soldier could be triggered by the recitation of a specific set of words. A particularly nasty piece of mental conditioning.

"I can't guarantee I can help him overcome his trigger," he said at last.

Mr. Rogers shook his head. "That's not why we need you, Doctor Garner. Others are working at breaking the programming, but it's Bucky's _other_ problems I'm worried about. Nightmares. Depression. Mood swings. One moment he's sullen and silent, the next he's smiling and reminiscing about when we were kids. Then he could be laughing and joking with the rest of the team, and something as simple as a word or a smell might trigger some memory from his time with HYDRA, sending him into a fit of rage." The man blinked rapidly, chasing away the moisture clouding his eyes. "I feel like I'm losing my friend all over again, and the worst part is, I'm not sure how much of my friend is actually left inside him."

Andrew closed the dossier one last time. He'd seen enough. Heard enough. Helping Inhumans through the emotional turmoil of their transition suddenly felt old-hat. He'd never worked with someone who'd been subjected to this level of torture and trauma before, but that simply made it all the more important that he _try_.

"Alright. When do we start?"

"He'll be difficult," Mr. Rogers warned. "He's not particularly fond of doctors."

"That's understandable."

"And he might tell you he doesn't want help."

"That's his choice."

"And—"

Andrew held up a hand to halt the onslaught. "Mr. Rogers, you're not telling me anything I haven't anticipated or encountered before. Believe it or not, most people are inherently suspicious of psychologists and counsellors. It's nothing unique to Mr. Barnes. And you have my word, I will treat him with the utmost care."

His assurance seemed to relieve some of the superhero's misgivings. His shoulders relaxed as he took a deep breath.

"In that case, you'll need to pack a bag. We have a long journey ahead of us."


	2. The Road to Somewhere

He Who Fights With Monsters

 _2\. The Road to Somewhere_

Steve Rogers' idea of going incognito was to dress up in what the kids these days were calling 'hipster style,' all skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. Luckily, it was an ensemble that wasn't entirely out of place at Culver University. To give Mr. Rogers a safe place to wait while Andrew packed his bags and put a few affairs in order, he took the off-duty superhero to the university's library. To be doubly sure nobody spotted him, he left Mr. Rogers in the non-equilibrium statistical mechanics section.

Home wasn't far from campus, a ten-minute drive when the traffic flowed freely. Time and time again he'd considered moving out of the house he and Melinda had once shared… but each time he picked up the phone to call a real estate broker and ask how much his house might go on the market for, he couldn't bring himself to dial the number. He knew it was foolish sentimentality, to be so attached to a house, but he didn't care. The house held many good memories, and he wanted to keep hold of them.

Schrödinger ran up to Drew as he stepped through the front door, winding his feline body around his owner's legs. A plaintive meow begged for food, so Andrew fed the ginger tabby to keep him quiet while he packed. It was a job that didn't take long at all. He never knew when the call would come in to request his assistance assessing a new Inhuman, so he kept a weekend bag half-packed in the bottom of his closet. All he needed to add to it were toiletries and a couple of notebooks. Everything else, Mr. Rogers had assured him, would be provided.

He logged on to his computer and sent an email to Director Coulson, advising him that he had important client business to attend to, and that he'd be unavailable for a couple of weeks at least. He made no mention of Steve Rogers nor Bucky Barnes, and since he had no idea where he'd be going yet, keeping that information quiet wasn't even an issue.

His holdall went into the car, and Schrödinger went into a carry-basket. Drew grabbed a couple of his feline companion's favourite toys, along with his deluxe bag of kitty kibble, and carried cat and all to the house next door. The Hoskins family had lived there for years, and when Mrs. Hoskins answered the door and heard his dilemma of travelling abroad to help treat a traumatised soldier, she assured him that taking care of Schrödinger wouldn't be a problem. Her kids loved the ginger tom; he suspected the cat would be fat with treats and canned tuna by the time he returned home.

Back at campus, he parked up and made his way to the library, where Mr. Rogers was engrossed in a book about Onsager reciprocal relations.

"Do you understand any of that?" he asked, gesturing to the hefty tome.

"Oh, sure." Captain America gave him a wry smile. "There are words like 'the' and 'law' that I understand just fine. As for the rest of it… might as well be in Greek." He squinted at the page through the thick-rimmed glasses. "In fact, I'm pretty sure his particular equation _is_ in Greek."

"You'll be glad to know you can stop attempting to blend in, now." Andrew patted his holdall. "I'm ready to go."

"Ever been in the services?" Mr. Rogers asked, as he led the way out of the library.

"No. Why?"

"Looks like you travel pretty light. It's a habit you get into, as a soldier. _Never more than you can carry._ "

"I like to think that our most important possessions can't be physically carried in anything," Drew told him. An image of Melinda's wryly smiling face ran fleeting before his eyes. "We keep them close, inside here." He tapped his chest, directly above his heart.

"Very true."

The mystery of how Captain America, however incognito, had entered the country without being detected was swiftly solved. Mr. Rogers led Andrew up to the roof of the building and pulled a small remote control from his pocket. When he pressed one of the buttons, Andrew heard a familiar mechanical whirr as a quinjet's loading ramp was lowered. The jet's interior revealed itself slowly, smoothly, while the bulk of the craft remained completely invisible to the naked eye.

It wasn't a perfect camouflage, he knew. When stationary, the cloaked craft were nigh on impossible to spot. When they moved, the discerning eye might pick up a slight _blurring_ of something moving against its backdrop. Still, only those who knew what they were looking for—and were looking in exactly the right place at exactly the right time—would make visual contact on one of the stealthy craft.

"Would you care to take the co-pilot's seat?" Mr. Rogers asked, after kindly stowing Drew's bag in the overhead compartment.

"Just so long as you don't expect me to fly the damn thing."

"Actually, I was about to ask you to promise not to touch any of the buttons or dials or flashing lights," the other man chuckled.

"In that case, it would be my pleasure."

He slid onto the very comfortable leather seat and buckled himself in. Some of the pre-flight checks Mr. Rogers performed were vaguely familiar, but he'd never paid much attention to these things before. In his work with SHIELD, he was chauffeured everywhere, but as a passenger, not a co-pilot. The basic SHIELD quinjets were far more functional—was that in-seat heating he was feeling through his pants?—than this Avengers model. Tony Stark's influence, probably.

He watched the campus grow smaller and smaller as the quinjet gained altitude. Soon he could see nothing beneath him but wispy white clouds above an indistinct green backdrop.

"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?" Drew asked at last. Mr. Rogers maintained a tight-lipped, heroically frowning silence, so Drew decided to make it a little easier for him. "I recognise some of the names from the most recent report in that dossier you gave me. Dr. Ifeowula Layeni is a Nigerian psychologist renowned for his work with war-torn African communities. Yewande Akindele is a newer name on the scene, but her paper, _Behind the Warrior Spirit of Mankind,_ was a very interesting read. She's also one of the few Wakandans to ever publish outside of the country."

Captain America's shoulders lowered into a defeated slump. "We—that is to say, Bucky and I, and the rest of my team—we're guests of King T'Challa."

"Guests? Or _guests_?"

"The former. Definitely the former," Mr. Rogers assured him.

"That must be uncomfortable for you," mused Drew. When one of Mr. Rogers' eyebrows lifted in question, he elaborated. "Wakanda was one of the first countries to sign the Sokovia Accords. You were vehemently against them. I can see how that might be a source of friction."

"Actually, the Wakandans are very accommodating. King T'Challa's made it clear that we're all royal guests. We mostly stick to the palace and its grounds, so our presence doesn't cause too much of a disturbance. Plus, y'know, Bucky. He rarely leaves his room, and when he does, he never goes further than the 'relaxation space' T'Challa's provided for us."

The words were delivered in a light-hearted tone, but Drew was used to looking for non-visual clues; Mr. Roger's tightly clenched jaw, and the stiffness in his back and shoulders, told a very different story.

"You seem a little tense," he pointed out. "Are you active?"

Mr. Rogers cleared his throat before giving Drew a little sideways glare from the corner of his eye. "No offence, Doctor, but don't you think that's a little personal?"

"I meant 'active' in the crime-fighting, super-powered, going-on-missions sense."

A pink blush crept up the blond man's neck, and by the time it reached his ears, it was bright red. He brushed a large hand through his hair.

"Oh. Ah, no. Everything's too messy at the moment. Bucky, the Accords, the King's inauguration… we can't just go back to being Avengers. It's too risky. We might run in to Tony, or other Enhanced people working under the banner of the Accords. And it would cause trouble for T'Challa, if the rest of the world found out he was harbouring… vigilantes." The word was laced with the bitter sting of distaste.

"Sounds like you're juggling quite a few balls."

The look Mr. Rogers shot him was sharp and full of suspicion. It made Drew want to smile.

"Are you analysing me?"

"Yes. But not in the way you're thinking."

"And what way am I thinking?"

"That I'm asking you 'trick' questions to try and get you to 'slip up,'" Andrew said. "That I'm making seemingly innocent remarks with some ulterior motive, perhaps reading between your lines until you come out with some key word or expression which allows me to deduce that it was hard for you growing up the only child of a single parent, and that you feel responsible for your friends being torn from their regular lives." He chuckled quietly as Mr. Rogers' eyes widened. "And no, I didn't get all that from a five-minute conversation. I've been to the Captain America display in the Smithsonian. Actually, I was dragged there by a friend, but I found it very informative. It's like I told you; _everybody_ thinks psychologists are capable of reading a person's past, present and future with a few words or gestures." He didn't bother holding back the sigh. "Television has a lot to answer for."

"You _did_ admit you were analysing me," the blond man prompted.

Drew turned a little in his seat, so he could face the Captain directly. "I read in the Smithsonian that you went to art college. So, you're an artist, right?"

The question seemed to catch Mr. Rogers off-guard. The answer came easily, and full of genuine modesty. "Well, I'm not sure _actual_ artists would call me an artist. It's been a while, and it's not like my drawings ever ended up in a museum." One eyebrow lifted. "Did they?"

Smiling, Drew shook his head. "Not that I know of. My point is, as an artist, when you're looking at a painting you've never seen before, do you analyse every single brush stroke? Do you break the picture down into a series of brush strokes?"

"No. I look at it as a whole. The form. The composition. The use of colour. The actual techniques—the strokes—are just one part of that whole."

"And so it is with psychology. Imagine that people are paintings. We want to see the whole picture. We don't just look at what people say, or what language their bodies convey, we look at thought processes, past experiences, hopes and dreams, motivational events… and so forth."

With his words, Mr. Rogers' shoulders relaxed, and Drew knew he'd put the man's mind at ease. It was one of his most valuable tools. Being able to find a way to relate to a person, to put things in terms they understood and accepted, was an effective way of establishing trust. Hopefully Mr. Barnes would be as open to trusting him as his best friend was. Hopefully Drew could start to put right an entire lifetime of wrongs.


	3. The Palace

He Who Fights With Monsters

 _3\. The Palace_

Flying over the untamed jungles of Wakanda was like diving head-first into a National Geographic documentary. White threads of mist rose slowly from the emerald canopy, kissed away by the rising sun's warmth. Flocks of birds wheeled above the treetops in search of breakfast, and in a distant clearing Drew thought he saw the cumbersome bulk of an elephant, before the quinjet carried him out of view.

"Quite the setting," Drew said appreciatively.

Mr. Rogers offered a warm smile. "Wait until you see the view from the palace."

He had no doubt the view would be astounding. Though he didn't know much about Wakanda—who did?—he'd heard that its landscapes were pristine, and its citizens wealthy. Royal residences were usually beyond extravagant. Whatever they had in store, it would put his little office in the University to shame.

Mr. Rogers seemed a capable pilot. He activated the radio and began talking about _approach vectors_ and _landing co-ordinates_. Drew took the opportunity to lean back in his chair and enjoy the view, while the in-seat heating continued to pleasantly warm him. He really needed to speak to Coulson about getting some upgrades for SHIELD's quins.

As soon as the palace swung into view, Drew understood what Mr. Rogers meant about the view. He didn't need to be inside the palace looking out of the windows; he could _see_ how impressive the views were. Positioned on a cliff overlooking a hundred sparkling waterfalls, bordered on one side by an expanse of virgin forest, and protected by an enormous, shining black panther statue that seemed to cling to the rock it had been intricately carved from, the palace was something beyond his imagination, and he couldn't help but be impressed with the fellow who'd designed the whole thing.

In comparison, the city nestled in the palace's shadow was missable at first glance. Its buildings were constructed from brown stone, and they blended with the encroaching jungle in a way that seemed organic. Cars crept along the paved road, but so did horse-drawn buggies and ox-drawn carts. And the roads themselves curved this way and that, merging into each other like a plate of spaghetti, so that not a single road took the form of a straight line. New York's city-planners would've had a fit if somebody suggested they build their city like this.

"First time I saw it, I had no words," Captain Rogers said. "Bucky used to joke that the only thing in the world that could render me speechless was Peggy, but I think Wakanda did a pretty good job, too."

Drew merely nodded, and let the silence return. You only got one chance to make a first impression, and he dearly wanted to enjoy and remember the first impression Wakanda was making on him. Part of him wished he'd brought along that fancy camera Melinda had gifted to him during their last Christmas together. The other part of him knew that the Wakandans would likely not tolerate their secrecy being breached in such a way.

Everything grew larger as the quinjet descended. At first, Drew thought Mr. Rogers was going to touch down outside the palace, in an open clearing that looked like a public garden, but he turned the craft at the last minute to make for a waterfall cascading down the cliff. Even though he knew he was in good hands, Drew's fingers clasped the arm of his chair as the falling water—not to mention the rock cliff—loomed like some roaring behemoth before the fragile quinjet.

"Am I going to wish I brought my galoshes?"

"No need to be nervous, Doc," said Captain Rogers. "I've done this at least once before."

"What makes you think I'm nervous?"

"Because when I get nervous, I make tension-busting bad jokes, too." _Bad joke_? Mr. Rogers smiled to take the sting out of his words. "Besides, I can hear your heart-rate increasing. Super-hearing is good for more than avoiding Nazis."

"Perhaps you've missed your calling as a counsellor," Drew chuckled.

"Well, I _am_ on the lookout for a new career. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be Dr. Rogers."

He didn't need to be told that the next part of the landing required _Dr. Rogers'_ full attention. With the jet hovering mid-air before the waterfall, this seemed a particularly perilous moment—especially since their pilot had only done this 'at least' once before.

The jet moved forward, and water came crashing down over the reinforced glass of the window. The whole plane shook, but Mr. Rogers kept it straight as it moved forward into the cliff. Drew glanced up through the window, at raging torrent being hurled down by gravity.

"I wonder what would happen if the river washed a few rocks down," he muttered to himself, forgetting that his pilot possessed better hearing than the SHIELD men who ferried him from Inhuman to Inhuman.

"I wondered that, too," said Mr. Rogers. "Figured the glass might take the water, but probably not rocks. I asked T'Challa, and he said there's a fine mesh cover at the top of the waterfall, that catches rocks and—um, trees—that get washed down-river. They clean it out on a regular basis."

"I hope for our sakes that mesh doesn't suddenly decide to break."

Captain Rogers let out a wry chuckle. "Unlikely. It's made from vibranium. The Wakandans use it like we'd use steel. I'm pretty sure even their dining cutlery is vibranium. Probably explains why the cook watches us like a hawk as we eat."

The jet slid forward, cutting swiftly through the waterfall, and was swallowed by the darkness of a wide, lamp-lit tunnel. Drew would be the first to admit he didn't know a damn thing about caves, but he didn't think this was an entirely natural formation. The walls were too smooth, too flawless, to have been created by Mother nature's rough hand.

He wasn't surprised when the tunnel terminated in a well-lit subterranean hangar bay; his first thought was that Coulson would drool with envy if he could see this place. The man liked his hangars.

At least a dozen quinjets slumbered in the hangar, their engines silent, their lights dark, and Drew was willing to bet that this wasn't the only hangar, and these weren't the only jets the King of Wakanda possessed.

A blur of light trailing in the darkness caught his eye. Below, on one of the jutting platforms, stood a dark-skinned Wakandan man in a high-visibility jacket. In each hand he held a kind of flashlight, and he waved these through the air to direct Captain Rogers in for his landing. The jet touched down with only a small bump, and Drew finally felt his heartbeat begin to slow. He didn't mind flying, but there was always that niggling voice of doubt that whispered into his mind. _One failed engine, one damaged wing-foil, one high-flying duck, and gravity will drag you back down to Earth_.

"The Wakandans are a very contradictory people," Mr. Rogers said as he flipped off all the switches on the flight console. "They'll offer to serve you in any way they can, but they respect people who aren't afraid to do things for themselves. At the same time, if they make a verbal offer to help you, they'll feel insulted if you turn them down." He shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs of some recent memory. "It's all very strange. From what I gather, _how_ you answer is more important than _what_ you answer. I'm still trying to figure it all out."

"Don't worry, I'll muddle my way through."

He grabbed his holdall from the overhead compartment and followed Captain Rogers to the rear of the quinjet as the loading ramp lowered with a mechanical whirr. Two dark-skinned figures stood waiting outside the ramp, one man and one woman. The former wore what Drew guessed to be traditional Wakandan attire, a deep ochre tunic with a dark fringed sash, and leather boots that came to mid-way up his calves. Though his face looked smooth and youthful, his dark hair was whitening at his temples. Whatever his age, his eyes spoke of wisdom and experience as he made a quick visual assessment of Drew.

The woman's grey tunic and loose trousers were simple by comparison, but her black hair was pinned in an intricate braid, and shot through with colourful beads. Her wide, genuine smile was the most welcoming thing Drew had seen in a long time, and it reminded him of how Melinda had smiled at him—before Bahrain.

"T'Keni!" said Mr. Rogers, stepping forward to shake the man's hand. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Such an esteemed guest requires the respect of an official welcome." The man turned a to face Drew, and offered a slight bow. "Dr. Garner, I extend to you the welcome of the King of Wakanda. His Highness, King T'Challa, is occupied with affairs of the state, but as his Chief Advisor, I have been asked to extend his hospitality to you. I am T'Keni, and you may call upon me any time, day or night."

"You honour me with your welcome, T'Keni," said Andrew. He returned the bow, just to be on the safe side.

"It is you who honour us with your presence," the woman said, stepping forward. She held out her hand in a more familiar gesture of welcome. "I have long been an admirer of your work, Dr. Garner. I am Yewande Akindele, and it is my great pleasure to meet you in person."

He shook her hand, unsurprised by the firmness of her grip. "Ms. Akindele, you are too kind. In fact, I've recently read your paper, _Behind the Warrior Spirit of Mankind_ , and found it both fascinating and insightful. If time permits, and you're amenable, I would very much like to exchange notes."

Somehow, her smile widened even further, and became infectious in the process. Only the fact that he was in the presence of the most trusted advisor of the King of Wakanda, plus Captain America, kept Drew from grinning like a kid.

"I was hoping you would say that, Doctor Garner. And I look forward to discussing things with you further. For now, though, I would not dream of monopolising your team while you have a patient in need of your help." The woman turned to address Mr. Rogers. "We have prepared room twenty-six in the lower east wing as a consultation room for Dr. Garner to use, and furnished it sparsely."

"I wasn't sure how you'd want the place decorated," Captain Rogers told him. "Bucky… he doesn't respond well to clinical environments. Triggers too many bad memories. I considered decorating the place like his family home—King T'Challa offered to buy some genuine 1930s antique furniture, for authenticity—but Yewande felt it would be best to consult you before doing that."

Drew nodded in agreement. "Sparsely furnished is fine. I'll add any additional touches myself." The mind was a powerful thing, and he knew only too well how easy it was to trigger unwanted memories. There would perhaps come a time when he'd need to take Mr. Barnes back to those old days, before the war, but he didn't want this therapy to exist there. Chances were, that time during his life would have too strong a hold on his mind.

"Do you want to meet the rest of the team?" Mr. Rogers asked. "Bucky probably won't come down to our shared living area, because he's avoiding social gatherings at the moment, but that doesn't mean you can't meet the people who fought with us to get him this far."

"And what do you think Mr. Barnes will think, if he learns that I've met with you and your friends without him present?"

Mr. Rogers frowned into the silence before speaking. "Probably that you're meeting behind his back on purpose, to talk about him without him being present. I guess it's not exactly a great way to build trust."

"Indeed. I'd like to meet Mr. Barnes before meeting anybody else, and I'd like to do it before the end of the day, if possible."

"Perhaps," said Ms. Akindele, "I could first show you to the room we have prepared for you to stay in, Dr. Garner, and have some light refreshments sent up from the kitchens. Then, when you are feeling recovered from your journey, we can take you to the consultation room so that you can make any adjustments before meeting Mr. Barnes."

"That sounds like an excellent idea, thank you."

"Would you allow me to carry your bag?" T'Keni offered.

"Is it far to the room?"

"No, it's quite close."

"Then I'll be just fine carrying my own bag, thank you."

T'Keni offered another slight bow, and Drew suspected he'd given the right answer. Mr. Rogers offered him a swift, encouraging smile, and he was guided down the corridor of his temporary new home.

* * *

 _Author's note: I bet you thought I'd forgotten about this story! Not so. I've just been quite focused on other works, but now have a little time to dedicate to a little Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier counselling, courtesy of everybody's favourite psychologist._


	4. Enter Bucky

He Who Fights With Monsters

 _4\. Enter Bucky_

Wakanda continued to be a place of contradictions. The ivory-hued hallways and marble floors would not have been out of place in some affluent Western establishment such as a bank or a multinational's headquarters. Everything was clean, and modern, minimalistic in a way. And yet, there were stark reminders that this country was a far cry from America's shores.

The pale walls were adorned every few paces with paintings and tapestries, scenes of Wakandans at work and at play—more of them showing hunts of elephants, tigers and something that looked like a small, brown giraffe.

 _("It's an okapi," Ms. Akindele said, when she saw Drew's gaze lingering over the creature. "Several hundred years ago, one of the Wakandan kings had several imported from other parts of Africa, to develop stock for hunting. Today they are protected, as are all the animals you see depicted in these barbaric scenes.")_

Drew swiftly understood why Yewande's psychology paper had focused so much on her people's warrior spirit: scenes of hunts weren't the only things hanging on the walls. Weapons, encased in glass, sat watch over all who passed down the corridors. Spears and bolas and bows and knives… every hunting weapon Drew could imagine, and some which were beyond his imagination, were suspended on the walls for all to see. And he would not have been surprised to see a _break glass in case of emergency_ sign beneath them.

"Do you find the items displayed here unsettling?" Ms. Akindele asked. She watched him from the corner of her eye as she kept pace beside him. Her graceful movements reminded him of Schrödinger, and he sent a silent prayer that the Hoskins' kids wouldn't feed the cat _too_ much tuna while he was out of town.

"More fascinating than unsettling," he admitted. "Please forgive my curiosity; I have an interest in anthropology. What's the cultural significance of displaying the items like this? I feel like I'm walking down the halls of a museum, but I can't imagine you get many tourists out here."

"They are to remind us of who we were, and where we have come from. The glories of our past, as well as our darker moments. When the thirty tribes were unified over five-hundred years ago, every warrior pledged to put down his weapon, and pick it up again only in defence of his land or his King. These are those weapons, and although our warriors today are better equipped than their predecessors, the oath still stands."

A hint of incense curling through the air completed the fusion of modern and ancient, and Drew couldn't help but wonder what effect these artifacts might have had on Mr. Barnes' mind.

The answer to his pondering came quickly, and as a relief. Ms. Akindele took him into the lower east wing, where the walls were bare and the incense a little less potent. When a scratch on one wall caught his attention, he stepped towards it and ran his fingers down the shallow gouge in the plaster.

"Somebody's been having a party?" he asked.

Ms. Akindele's expression soured. "Nothing so fun. When the King made it known that Mr. Barnes was to be housed in this area, the Dora Milaje had everything removed from the walls. I told them he was not dangerous, but they insisted, and scratched the wall in the process. They feared he might become the Winter Soldier and make an attempt on the King's life."

"The Dora what?"

"Milaje. They are the King's bodyguards. Warrior-women, one from each tribe. Eventually, the King will select one to be his bride. Until the day that he dies, they will protect his life with theirs."

A fascinating culture, indeed. But he was not here to indulge his curiosity. He had a job to do.

"You disagree with their assessment that Mr. Barnes might revert back to the Winter Soldier?" he prompted.

The woman's expression softened. Drew suspected Barnes' plight had touched her heart, even though she hadn't had any direct interaction with him.

"By all accounts, it takes very specific trigger-words, spoken in a specific order, to bring forth the Winter Soldier. And when he's in that state, the mind does everything it can to return to an equilibrium. The Soldier is, in my opinion, an imperfect program. That is why HYDRA had to continuously erase his memories and reprogram him each time they brought him out of cryostasis. Simply put, the Winter Soldier itself does not want to be. And Mr. Barnes is a fighter, and a good man. His personality exerts itself if the Winter Soldier is left to his own devices for too long." She shook her head, her smile fading completely. "A life on so short a leash is no life at all."

Her assumptions were bold, but he suspected she was thinking along the right tracks. According to the reports Drew had read, Mr. Rogers had more than once been able to break through the Winter Soldier's programming and bring Mr. Barnes back from the edge of the abyss. HYDRA's own actions towards Mr. Barnes suggested that the Soldier's programming was flawed at a very basic level. Perhaps they didn't have the ability to erase an entire mind. Or perhaps turning a mind into a _carte blanche_ destroyed too much autonomy. Without the memories of Mr. Barnes, would the Winter Soldier have forgotten how to drive a car? Would it, like a newborn babe, have been incapable of even swallowing a mouthful of solid food?

"This is your room," said Ms. Akindele, interrupting the flow of his thoughts as she stopped beside a door. "I will have refreshments sent up to you. Please, take as much time as you need to rest before your first consultation. Mr. Rogers has gone to advise Mr. Barnes of your arrival, and neither of them are going anywhere."

"Thank you, Ms. Akindele, for your welcome, as well as the informative tour of Wakanda's history."

"It was my pleasure. And please, call me Yewande. Only my students and clients call me 'Ms. Akindele.'"

"In which case, you can call me Drew," he offered.

Her smile returned. "When your schedule permits, I look forward to talking with you in more detail, Drew."

He purposely _didn't_ watch her saunter gracefully down the corridor. Instead, he turned to his door, and reached for the… handle?

"Oh, I completely forgot!" Yewande called. She hurried back to his side and pulled something like a cellphone from her pocket. "Please hold out your hand."

He did, and she ran the device over his palm, then turned it over and tapped the touch-screen a few times. The door made a sort of humming sound, followed by the click of an opening lock.

"Our biometric system has now been configured to detect your presence," Yewande explained. "Your bedroom door will open for you alone. As well, you will have access to all the general areas the rest of our guests can access. We take the privacy of our visitors very seriously."

"I can tell." And it was certainly a relief to know he wouldn't have to worry about losing his room key. He _was_ the key!

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

An hour later, Drew was refreshed and invigorated. The view from his window was a spectacular vista of emerald green beneath an azure sky, and the songs of the birds nesting in the trees below the window were both exotic and musical. He didn't want to engage in vanity by believing Yewande had arranged the impressive room for him… but a small part of him did wonder.

As for the furniture… the bed was comfortable, the built-in television was cinema-sized, and the tables and chairs—they were fit for a king. During a psychology conference, Drew had once stayed in New York's _Four Seasons_ hotel, but that place paled in comparison to Wakanda's palace.

He didn't know what the Wakandans put in their tea, but whatever it was had left him feeling like he'd just had a solid night's sleep. Like he could run a marathon… or at least make it to the hundred metre line before his body started complaining at doing something more strenuous than teaching.

Before reaching for the call button built into the door panel, he took a few minutes to sit on the sofa, close his eyes, and centre himself. He had an uphill battle ahead of him. A man with a shattered past of torture and violence, who would be difficult to help if he even accepted it. Perhaps this would be a good time to start keeping a reflective journal again. He hadn't done that since Melinda. Since it became too painful to put his feelings on paper. To make them real enough to read.

He pushed aside the thoughts of his ex-wife, and all the emotional turmoil that came with them. He would deal with them later, at a more appropriate time. This wasn't the place to be thinking about his own feelings. It was time to go to work.

A minute after pushing the call button, another Wakandan—this one a man wearing a muted blue tunic—appeared at his door.

"Could you please show me to the consultation room that Ms. Akindele has prepared?" Drew asked.

"Of course." The man's accent was heavier than Yewande's and T'Keni's'; more difficult to understand. "It is right this way."

Yewande had done a good job with the consultation room. It was plainly decorated and sparsely furnished. There was a desk, with a computer, printer, and other modern amenities. The corner-sofa looked comfortable without being lavish, and two equally comfortable armchairs sat at angles opposite each other across a small coffee table. The coffee machine on the sideboard bubbled quietly, spewing delicious aromas into the air—Yewande must've filled it up and switched it on after leaving Drew at his room—but there were small tins of tea and bottles of plain drinking water too, as well as a fridge-freezer in the sideboard's cupboard, complete with a ready supply of ice.

The view from the window was nice, without being distracting. A garden, Drew suspected, though there was nobody walking the undulating limestone paths right now. There were no paintings of landscapes or portraits adorning the walls, and not a single piece of art present. The room was about as neutral as a room could get, and there was a smaller, break-out room through an inconspicuous door. A room with only an armchair, and no windows. The perfect place to sit quietly and regroup.

"Ms. Akindele instructed me to provide you with anything you should require," the man offered, as if reading Drew's thoughts.

"In that case, I'll need about a half-dozen plants of differing shapes and sizes," Drew instructed. "In pots, of course. And do you have goldfish here?" The man nodded. "I'd like a goldfish in a small, rectangular tank"—round bowls were cruel to the fish—"and some of that incense I smelled burning after I left the hangar."

Drew learnt a valuable lesson about Wakandan efficiency, that day. After issuing the instructions, he sat himself behind the desk and managed to figure out how to logon to the fancy computer. Some virtual assistant directed him to the ACA's website, where he sent the organisation's 24-page Code of Ethics to the desktop printer.

In the time it took him to perform that relatively simple task, a slew of Wakandans appeared carrying potted plants of varying sizes, shapes and colours. Each one was presented to Drew for selection, and whilst he was busy trying to form opinions about plant species he'd never seen before in his life, two pairs of Wakandans arrived carrying a six-foot aquarium with a solid mahogany base. Drew sent it back with the instruction, "smaller." He only wanted one goldfish, not an entire Sea Life Centre.

By the time he was finished, the room was less clinical, more welcoming. The goldfish bobbed happily in his small tank, accompanied by one of those novelty divers attached to an airline, and the plants were positioned to make the most of the sun streaming in through the open blinds. When presented with a selection of several hundred flavours of incense, Drew went for plain old _ylang ylang._ But he didn't set it burning just yet.

This was, he decided, as he stood in the centre surveying the Wakandans' handiwork, about as un-HYDRA as a room could possibly get. With his redecoration finally complete, he sent for Mr. Barnes.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

If Yewande reminded Drew of a graceful housecat, the Dora Milaje put him in mind of a pride of lionesses. He saw two of them through the open door of the consultation room; they stalked past, eyes glancing casually around his room, taking in the plants, the fish, the furniture, and then they took up waiting positions on either side of his door. From each step of their feet to the way their gazes assessed the threat Drew posed, no movement was wasted, no action superfluous. Working with SHIELD, he was no stranger to people who employed violence to achieve their goals, but never before had he been so close to somebody who breathed it, bathed in it, lived it, draped it around themselves as a cloak to be carried wherever they travelled.

Their presence almost made a joke of the man who followed them. Dressed plainly in a jogging suit with the left arm of the grey sweatshirt pinned up above the elbow, James Buchanan Barnes oozed fear and uncertainty, from the way he crept slowly forward to the way his wide grey eyes darted around the room in the search for danger.

Drew beckoned him forward. "Come on in, Mr. Barnes."

And he did. Slowly. Hesitantly. As if waiting for somebody to jump out and shout 'boo.' One pace. Two. Three.

"You can close the door," Drew told him, when he was far enough into the room.

Mr. Barnes sprang his first surprise. Drew had expected him to close the door on the warrior women with a heavy measure of relief; the way they watched him suggested they weren't going to hesitate about employing some of that violence they'd shrouded themselves in. Instead, Mr. Barnes seemed… reluctant? He glanced back at them, and asked softly, "Are you sure?"

"My door is always open to you, Mr. Barnes," Drew said. "But when you're in here, the rest of the world must stay outside. And that includes your… escorts."

Barnes snorted quietly. "They keep me honest." But he closed the door anyway, then stood stiffly before Andrew, like he was in some military inspection line. Had that been the case, he would not have passed muster. With a week or more's worth of scruff on his face, dark circles beneath his eyes, and a weary slump to his shoulders, he looked less like a Soldier and more like a victim of war. Which, when it came down to it, he was.

"So," said Barnes, his gaze switching from the goldfish to Andrew's most casual nice suit, "you're the guy who's gonna fix me?"

Andrew smiled. "No, but if you want, I can introduce you to the man who is."

Barnes returned to studying the room. "Alright. Bring him out."

"Before we get started, there's something I want to give you." He turned to the desk and picked up the Code of Ethics he'd printed earlier. One of Mr. Barnes' eyebrows rose.

"Homework?"

"In a way. This is what's called a _Code of Ethics_. It lays out the sort of treatment you can expect from me, and the ways in which you as a person and a client will be both protected and respected during our sessions." He held out the papers, and saw the hesitation in Barnes' eyes before he accepted them. "I'd like you to read this before we go any further. Study it. Absorb it. And if you have any questions, you can ask me. Or you can go online and do your own research. Once you've read the _Code_ , and if you'd like to proceed, we can arrange our first official appointment. Until then, you're under no obligation to tell me anything. You don't even have to say 'hello' if you see me in the corridors."

"Nobody told me there'd be homework," said Barnes.

"If you'd prefer not to read it—"

"No." Barnes snatched the printout towards his chest, as if worried Drew might take it back. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find reading materials in English around here? Besides, I promised Steve I'd at least consider this whole therapy thing." His dark eyebrows lowered, his gaze turning inward. "I owe him that, at least. He gave up everything for me."

Drew nodded, and made a mental note to discuss that particular guilt somewhere down the line.

"There's not gonna be a test afterwards, is there?" asked Barnes, holding up the document.

"No," said Drew, chuckling. "You can keep that for as long as you like. It's how you'll know whether I'm doing right by you."

Mr Barnes lifted his chin, and his grey eyes became colder, more challenging, though not threatening. "And if I decide your _Code_ isn't good enough? If I don't wanna do this thing?"

"Then I'll take a few days to enjoy the Wakandan culture before heading on home. It's been some time since I last had a vacation, and my students won't be returning until after summer break." When he sensed Barnes wavering with indecision, he added, "I can't help you unless you _want_ to be helped. Ultimately, that is the decision you have to make."

It was like flipping a switch. Gone was the defiance, replaced by a downcast gaze and a further slump of the shoulders. "What if I don't deserve to be helped?"

"In terms of counselling, you either believe that nobody deserves to be helped, or you believe that everybody does. Personally, I'm an _everybody_ sort of guy. And regardless of what you've done or didn't do, it's time for you to start deciding who you want to _be_ , Mr. Barnes. You can't control what you did yesterday, but you can change who you'll be tomorrow. Why don't you take some time to read through the _Code_ , and see how you feel about it in the morning?"

Barnes nodded and turned for the door. The two Dora Milaje hadn't moved a muscle, and as Barnes walked off down the corridor, they fell into line behind him. They might have been a guard of honour, were it not for their focused stares. Drew just hoped he could prove to them, and to the rest of the world, that Mr. Barnes was not the monster they thought him to be.

* * *

 _Author's note: Okay, so, here's the 4-1-1 on how counselling_ _ **really**_ _works as a profession. In the U.S., practitioners of counselling or psychotherapy are required by law to be licensed by the State in which they are practising. Elsewhere, counselling is self-regulated by professional bodies (and there are billions of acronyms out there: ACA, BCPC, CPCAB, PACFA, APCP, NCA, BACP – pick your flavour based on where you live). These professional bodies impose ethical frameworks and codes of conduct which govern the counsellor/client relationship, and lay out ground rules for appropriate conduct. They offer support and advice to counsellors (for example, What To Do If You Breach The Terms Of The Ethical Framework By Engaging In An Inappropriate Relationship With Your Client, And Exactly How Screwed That Makes You) and require a minimum number of mandatory CPD hours per annum to ensure members stay apprised of regulation changes and to encourage Best Practice. Counsellors themselves are always encouraged and often required to undertake regular 'supervision' sessions, in which they are in turn aided by their appointed supervisor/mentor and can bring up any issues which might arise during client appointments (whilst preserving client confidentiality, of course). Supervision (in the counselling sense) is not as common with U.S. practitioners, though as mentioned, there are strict licensing laws. Yewande will be serving in the supervisory-type role in this fic._

 _Be a part of Bucky's story by going to the American Counseling Association's website and reading the Code of Ethics. It's a great insight into the code by which counsellors should (and most do) conduct themselves whilst practising. Don't worry, I'll give you time to do that before updating again!_

 _n.b.: I'm not a qualified counsellor. Everything in this story is from the depths of my imagination, tempered with a heavy dose of How Counselling Really Works, as outlined above. I'm also playing fast and loose with the history of Wakanda and the Dora Milaje—don't expect me to follow canon too much here, because I'm not really familiar with the Black Panther lore._

 _P.P.P.P.S: A quick check of the Four Seasons Hotel gives me a November price of $895 per night for the most basic room. If I win the lottery, I'm spending a month there, and I'm imbibing the entire mini-bar._


	5. Scott

He Who Fights With Monsters

 _5\. Scott_

Finding his own way back to his room had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Drew quickly came to regret his decision. He hadn't paid much attention to the route his guide had brought him along, and now that he was trying to retrace his steps, he felt like Theseus in the Labyrinth. One corridor led to another, and another, and they all looked the same. SHIELD's secret bases had nothing on this place.

 _Click clack click_.

Andrew stopped and froze, ears strained for the source of the clicking sound.

 _Click clack click._

It was getting closer.

 _Click clack click._

Whatever it was, it was clicking with precision timing. Not something natural.

 _Click clack click CLICK CLACK CLICK._

Drew tensed. Held his breath. Wished the Dora Milaje hadn't removed all the weapons from the walls. If ever there was a need for emergency weapons, this was probably it.

 _CLICK CLICK CLI—_

The clicking stopped at the corner of the corridor, but nothing came around it. Then, Drew looked down, and damn near jumped out of his skin.

A small, mechanical… thing… was… watching him? The 'thing' was some sort of cat-sized robot shaped like a spider. Its spindly legs held a solid metal body up off the marble floor, and its 'eyes' looked suspiciously like small cameras. Never a big fan of spiders, though he drew the line at killing them, Drew shuddered.

The mechanical spider moved forward, its metal feet click-clacking on the marble floor. Drew took a step back, and the spider stopped. The nightmare-ish thing just halted in the middle of the corridor, as if waiting for him to make the next move.

Possible actions ran through his head. Shout for help. Run away. Squash the damn thing. But he had no idea whether this sort of encounter was _normal_ in Wakanda. Maybe the mechanical bug served some sort of purpose in the palace. Maybe it was the Wakandan equivalent of a guard-dog. Maybe it was the King's childhood pet.

Whatever its function, it didn't seem particularly hostile. Creepy, perhaps. Very creepy. But not threatening.

Drew cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you'd know the way back to my room, by any chance?"

The bug turned on the spot, and Drew could've sworn it made a gesturing motion with one leg.

He had nothing to lose by following the bug, so he kept a good couple of paces behind it as it led him down the corridor. The more he saw, the more he was impressed by its construction. The bug didn't move quickly, but it moved with precision, and each time it approached a door, it moved more towards the opposite side of the corridor, as if afraid of somebody coming out and stepping on it.

Was there a human behind its controls, or was it an entirely automated thing? Drew had seen first-hand the potential for good that AI possessed… and he'd also seen the fallout of an AI gone rogue. The whole world had watched Novi Grad destroyed by Ultron. That the Wakandans might be experimenting with the same technology was a chilling prospect.

His questions were answered as the bug led him down another corridor where a dark-haired man wearing blue jeans and a black novelty t-shirt with 'Evil Overlord' printed on the front and 'Unsung Hero' on the back stood waiting beside the door to Drew's room. The remote control he held was reminiscent of a games console controller, though it had a small display built into it.

"You must be Doctor Garner," the man said. He offered his free hand. "Scott Lang, temporary Avenger-in-Exile. I miss my daughter like crazy, but I don't regret helping Captain America. I like walks by the beach, and one of those online test things told me I'm ESFP. Just puttin' it out there."

Drew accepted his hand. Myers and Briggs had as much to answer for as those TV Psychologist shows. "Nice to meet you, Mister Lang. I suppose I have you to thank for rescuing me from this maze of corridors and leading me back to civilisation?"

"Me? Nah. I'm just a guy in a suit who invents things in his spare time. But not murder-bots," he added quickly. "Nothing I created ever destroyed a city. No, I was taking Sticky out for a test drive, when he picked up your lifesigns and alerted me to your presence."

"Sticky?"

Lang gestured to the metal bug. "He's a prototype, but by the end of the year, he'll be saving lives."

"How so?"

"If you've got a moment to spare, I can take you to my lab and show you all the cool toys King T'Challa gave me. I can explain on the way."

It would be a while before Mr. Barnes got through the paperwork Drew had given him, so he agreed to accompany the Avenger-in-Exile. No harm in getting a feel for where the rest of the team was at.

"Despite being pretty isolated," Lang said, as 'Sticky' click-clacked his way down the corridor between both men, "the Wakandans want to help their neighbours, especially those… less affluent. For the past few years, they've been developing the technology to assist traditional search and rescue teams during disaster situations. You know, earthquakes, terrorist attacks… murder-bots. That sort of thing."

"I get the idea."

"They built Sticky's body out of vibranium, and equipped him with cameras and detectors to allow an operator to 'see' what he sees. Thanks to his small size and indestructible body, he can get into places dog-teams can't go. He can crawl right down into collapsed buildings, seek out survivors, and relay that information back to his operator. Here we are, this is my lab."

The double-doors swished open at their approach, revealing a spacious area filled with work-benches, 3D printers and huge computers. Three Wakandans were working at one of the computers, while a 3D printer was midway through assembling a plaster cast of something that looked like a different type of Sticky.

"Version two," Lang said. He offered a wave at the Wakandans, then led Drew over to his personal work-space. "The problem the Wakandans have been having is with part of the coding. I've managed to resolve most of the conflicts, but my goal for Sticky v.2 is to enable a hands-free HUD link between the operator and the drone, to allow for a more seamless integration of the search and rescue functionality. In theory, an operator could be a hundred miles away, searching out survivors and relaying the information without putting himself at risk."

"Or it could be used for spying on enemy troops in war," Drew pointed out. In his experience, every military was keen to jump on technology that could give them an edge over their enemies. "With an indestructible body, it could even be used for assassination."

Lang gave him one of _those_ looks. An ' _are you crazy?'_ kinda look. "Jeez, the Dora Milaje will _love_ you. But Sticky doesn't have weapons, and it's not exactly what I'd call _stealthy._ " He bent down to scoop the bug up, and placed it on the workbench. "Sticky's going to save lives, not take them."

"And you're a hundred percent sure there's no chance of this thing becoming genocidal?"

"It's not that sort of AI. The algorithms are—"

Drew held up his hand to stall the onslaught of techno-babble. "I'll take your word for it. But there's one thing I have to ask. Why do you call it 'Sticky'?"

Lang held out his hand, prompting the bug to climb on it. Once it was aboard, he turned his hand over… and the bug didn't succumb to gravity and fall to the floor. Like a real spider, it clung to the surface on which it stood.

"So?" said Lang, placing the bug back down on the workbench. "Whaddya think, Doc?"

"I think if I was trapped for several days under a few thousand tons of steel and concrete, and I saw an oversized mechanical spider crawling towards me, it wouldn't encourage me to keep calm." Calm was definitely not something Sticky instilled.

"Don't listen to him, Sticky." Lang gave the thing's… head?… a gentle pat. "You're cute as any puppy. At least, that's what my daughter thinks, from the video I sent her." He sighed in resignation. "I know it's probably not the most _comforting_ thing to see in a disaster situation, but the Wakandans' tests have shown that the arachnid form is the most efficient at this sort of work. Anyway, Version Two will have an inbuilt speaker, so that the operator can convey reassuring words to survivors. That should help to alleviate any arachnid-based fear. Don't you think?"

"I'm sure it will," Drew assured him, not wholly convinced he was telling the truth. Lang smiled at 'Sticky' with such tenderness that it almost seemed like his own child. "This is important to you, isn't it?"

Lang nodded. "I've done a lot of bad things in my life. I wasn't always a good husband or father… and then there was what stint in jail, which was undeserved, if you ask me… but sometimes I wish I'd done things different. I can't change the things I've done, but this is a way for me to contribute something worthwhile to the world. Long after _Ant-Man_ and the _Avengers_ are gone, Sticky and his fellow drones will continue to save lives."

"It's your legacy."

Suddenly, Lang was all embarrassment. He quickly ran a hand through his hair as he objected to the idea. "I wouldn't go that far. I mean, I worked out some of the bugs—no pun intended—but I'm not looking for fame or glory or a statue in Washington. I just want to make a difference. To help people. To look in the mirror and see a guy my daughter can be proud of. She's the real legacy."

"You know," said Drew, "I came here to help Mr. Barnes overcome his demons, but my door is open to everybody who needs to talk. If you want to discuss anything that's happened, or how you feel about your current situation, I can make as much time as you need."

"Thanks, but I have to say, I think I'm pretty well-adjusted." He picked up a strange-looking helmet from the workbench behind him. "Now, let's go introduce you to the rest of the team. I can't wait to see their faces when I come into the living room riding Sticky."

* * *

 _Author's note: Some of you will see Sticky again, in a future story. Some of you won't. Hope you enjoyed his introduction! Don't worry, Boy, Interrupted will be returning shortly._


End file.
